


beauty, a white rose

by crookeds



Category: Drag-On Dragoon | Drakengard
Genre: Child Abuse, Gen, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-13 03:24:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17480294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookeds/pseuds/crookeds
Summary: they call her witch, as the stories spread all across the land. crimson eyes, skin bathed in blood—she will kill you, your family, your neighbors, your loved ones. she will bath in carnage and cast her spell when she is done.(bullshit)





	beauty, a white rose

**Author's Note:**

> a character study and detailed take on zero's origins.

 

 

_“this decay, this hope, this mouthful of dirt, this poetry.”_

— Margaret Atwood

 

  
she is nothing

born empty, devoid of worth.

caught among the rest of what can also be considered nothing. in darkness that smells of filth, breathing corruption that pours from the hands of those who control the sun.

(fuck-it doesn't matter)

her mother screams at her, palms red, matching her cheek. and in the heat of her anger, she blames her for their shared starvation, for the holes in their clothing, and for her missing father. for the way the windows rattle when the wind blows too hard; for the way the moonlight and all of the biting cold pours in through the paper thin walls.

she points a finger in her face; suddenly grabs her by the cheek, pinching hard-hard enough to risk drawing blood given how deep her nail digs into her skin. her mother reminds her, "you are nothing, brat," before she rips away, letting her fall to the floor. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

the long shadows that peel off of the walls and the ground around her are so easy to become lost in. she is unseen in their wake, so dull that no one dare pay any mind to her presence.

she learns by seeing, imitating every petty thief caught in the corner of her eye - learning from them when they're caught and beaten in the street.

she knows how to steal before she knows how to speak.

it happens quickly: greedy hands pluck fruits from merchants and vendors when they make the mistake of looking away. lackluster red apples are stuffed underneath her dress, tightly held against her stomach. she runs then-white hair wild and flying behind her; eyes wide open, making sure no one has seen her.

and she runs. and runs. and runs. until she finds an alleyway worth hiding in, stopping in the dark. huddled in a corner, she bites into the apple too quickly and runs the risk of choking on her own hunger alone, with no one to go looking for her.

she looks the cores over once she's finished eating. holds them in her sticky palms before letting them roll off of her fingers and onto the ground with a light smack beside her feet. she closes her eyes, full and warm from the summer heat that wraps itself like a blanket over her skin, and lets her head dip back to rest against the wall.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_(i was a stupid kid_

_i don't know why i bothered living. i was small, i could have died easily. would have spared us from all this stupid shit. instead i wound up fighting. and none of it wound up mattering in the end._

_all of it was bullshit._

_but i guess-_

_guess i just wanted to survive)_

 

 

* * *

 

 

when her mother sells her, she smiles. they give her extra coin when she insists on it-arguing as she grips her chin and forces her face up. "look at the eyes. i want more. she's got to be worth at least a little more, dammit!"

her mother's gaze is hazy, her fingers desperately tight around the coin purse now in her hand. men begin to grab her, quickly pulling her away. they hold her arms tightly, despite the fact that she's too confused to fight back, leaving bruises where their fingers squeeze tightly. in a tightly cramped room where the light cowers from the shadows of the men who carry it, her name is signed away-her life is given up, and she is left to rot in a brothel.

she looks at her daughter before she leaves - really sees her as her stare begins to focus. reaching out, she lays a thin hand on her shoulder and squeezes gently. blinks the haze away for just a moment so she can coo, sweet and soft, "my brave little girl."

"you were worth something after all."

 

 

* * *

 

 

in the brothel, she sees women like her mother. thin things built like leftovers of the past, desperate for coin, desperate to ward off potential daughters who will only starve them more. there are girls like her, too. young, her age - maybe even younger, sometimes, who keep to themselves or fend for themselves through whatever means necessary.

"rose," says one. she smiles and leans in close, hands on her cheeks as she looks closely at her. it's startling, to suddenly no longer be nameless. her palms are rough, but it's a touch that she welcomes - a tiny part of her relishing in the warmth that clings to her face even after she lets go. "your eyes, they're so red! you're popular, aren't you? haven't you ever looked in a mirror?"

she smiles, even in the face of her silence. "anyways, you're rose. trust me."

and rose stiffens, looking down as she's addressed. her fingers find the hem of her own dress and bury themselves in the tattered fabric as she tries to quickly learn to shoulder weight of a name.

"fine," she starts, "but i get to pick your name."

it takes less than a second. she's never cared about her own looks or other's, but she sees her eyes harbor a deep shade of blue that borders on violet - making the darkness pretty, a direct contrast to her own stare.

"you're indigo. there."

she hesitates - "really?" and rose nods in response, leaning back. head tilting as she nearly smiles and teases her new friend, "haven't you ever looked in a mirror?"

they both laugh at that.

 

 

* * *

 

 

in the early morning of the daytime, they always find one another. indigo clasps her by the hand and pulls her into an empty room that smells musty and dark, with slivers of light peeking in through the single, locked window. indigo sit against the door so that they can speak in private. rose slides down next to her, knees pulled up to her chest, eyes heavy from exhaustion as she forces herself to speak anyways.

they talk about one another; about the endless work, about the men that they hate and the women who force them to stay obedient, handing over their coin and keeping their patrons satisfied.

and then indigo says, “we’ll leave.”

“steal all of their gold and slip out of the window during the night before they can even realize we’ve screwed them.”

“that’s impossible,” rose shakes her head, tired, doubtful. “we’d get caught. they’d beat us senseless. it happens all of the time.”

she smiles then - the same smile from when she first said rose, the same smile shared in secret between them across the busy floors and hallways - “but we’re different, aren’t we? you’re the best thief that i know. almost the best - not as good as i am.”

rose laughs quietly, involuntarily. “i guess.”

“alright. i can take the beating if we get caught anyways. let’s try.”

“we’ll run away together.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

_(stupid_

_stupid-stupid fucking idiot-_

_idiot)_

 

 

* * *

 

 

the two of them are brilliant - they are perfect. two young girls wait until the brothel goes quiet; until its patrons are too drunk and their girls are too occupied to immediately notice when they disappear. they stuff gold into their hands and makeshift bags made from the sheets of their beds and refuse to be distracted by the way it all glitters in their trembling fingers while they steal as much as they can carry. indigo leads the two of them through it all. she navigates the dark corridors, she sets a precedent in the way her footsteps are silent and her form fits in with the night. her eyes perfectly hidden in the dark, her mouth stern until they finally manage to make it outside.

she whispers, grabbing rose by the arm - “now, run.”

they sprint, feet smacking against cobblestone and wet pavement, legs shaking as adrenaline rushes through their veins. she feels her lungs heave, they run so hard, begging for more air than she can provide. coin rattles as they scramble through the streets until they come upon the outskirts of the city. pavement slowly disappears, replaced by grass that softens their steps. they run until they find a river with a man who waits patiently for their arrival - a sight that signifies freedom.

finally

but then-she feels the point of a knife against her back, drawing blood as it pricks her skin through her thin dress, little stains of red painting the white. a tightly drawn threat comes next, ”give me the coin, all of it”- and then the sound of her heart falling through her own stomach.

“indigo-”

she turns and sees her smile.

“i needed you to carry all my gold, that’s all. i’m going to kill you, but thank you for helping anyways.”

“no hard feelings, right, rose?”

but she hears the horses, the shouts of men close behind. the expression on indigo’s face suddenly darkens, replaced by frustration and a sharp, “dammit!” she suddenly rips the money from her hands - there’s no fight, no struggle - and indigo runs across the river, water splashing past her ankles, coins slipping from her hands.

she disappears.

they take her easily. deal with her with a single strike across the head and knock her out cold, her body falling with a disappointing thud in the muddy grass. they curse as they pick her up, haphazardly tossing her onto the back of a horse; carrying her back to the brothel.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_(it’s not like i resent her_  
_i’m just pissed she thought of it first_

_if i hadn’t been such a stupid kid, i could have killed the both of them and ran first_  
_maybe i could have even cleaned myself off in the river, gotten rid of the blood_  
_that would have been annoying to deal with_

_at least she reminded me not to trust anyone_

_just do what you have to. then get the hell out._

_rose was a stupid fucking name)_

 

 

  
_“frozen arms_  
_held blackness in embrace,_  
_and within blood flowed.”_  
— Georg Trakl

 

  
she refuses to stay here longer than she has to. so planning is quick and deliberate - starting from the moment she recovers from her beating she decides: she’ll have to kill all of them.

indigo had been wrong - she was never a better thief than her.

the months pass by and she begins to frame the night in question, collecting equal parts necessity and courage until she can pull it off. she steals a misplaced dagger, enough poison to make her feel secure. she prepares.

and when looking over their faces before she starts, there’s no remorse nestled in the pit of her stomach, threatening to rise up her throat.

she feels nothing.

so a nameless girl laces their drinks first - lets the men get drunk, lets some of them die choking quietly on their own bile. most slump over their tables with a quiet thud so innocuous it’s easy to mistake as a drunken nap. then she waits for the rest of them to pass out as the night carries on further. she slips into their beds, killing sleeping men and women one after another.

none of them get the chance to fight, and she makes sure none of them can scream by cutting their throats first. the mattresses and sheets soak up the blood underneath them as she moves quietly from room to room, and by the end of it she is dripping red, silhouette outlined by the moonlight that hangs overhead when she exits.

her face is blank, eyes illuminated - _red, red, red._

so violent; simple.

and finally free.

 

 

* * *

 

 

when she's betrayed again, she doesn't hesitate to do what's necessary.

she lives with a man out of need for a roof over her head. he is a familiar face from a place she has all but desecrated—the brothel left in a puddle of blood that seeps through the floorboards with corpses that are quick to start rotting. there is no name on the bounty over her head: only a rumor and a face that goes unrecognized.

they start a life together and it is a life much simpler than anything she has ever experienced before. poorly lived by other's standards all the same, but they steal coin and keep themselves from starting in their shared space. not so simple is the blade she keeps hidden nearby—tucked underneath her dress or behind her pillow; in the cracks of the wooden floor, underneath the table where they sit together. it is the act of waiting for what is inevitable. people are weak, men are weak; it's remembering a selfish smile she wishes she had been smart enough to wear on the river bank that reminds her of such.

people are weak. men are weaker.

and then she is sick, proving to be just as weak as the rest of them. nothing special after all, of course. her body betrays her first and the scourge makes itself visible in the chills that crawl up her back and the sickly glow of her skin. the thin sheen of sweat that persists to stick to her skin no matter how cold it is; the coughs that keep her breathless and spitting up blood.

he leaves. that is not a betrayal. that is being smart.

betrayal is when he returns with ropes and a knife after remembering the bounty on her head.

but being sick makes her a light sleeper.

he crawls over her and tries to be careful, arms reaching over her head (too slow) to bind her wrists. her eyes fly open.

she moves snake quick to grab the iron dagger underneath her head, and he still hasn't had the time to process the fact that she is awake when she cuts his throat in a single motion. he slumps over to die with a confused look on his face as the blood sprays onto her. she shoves him off with a single push and throws her legs over the side of the bed, coughing and standing with a tremble that only comes because of her illness.

there is a feeling she didn't realize existed before. it was felt at the brothel when she was bathed in moonlight and red, red, red—fresh off of killing every person behind its closed doors.

this is—

cruel and ugly. withered in the pit of her stomach, blossoming in what will be the last moments of her life.

—it is only a feeling; she doesn’t know how to label it.

but god, she feels.

and that is all that matters.

 

 

* * *

 

  
_(if he had a name, i don't remember it_  
_i didn't give him mine._  
_as if i had one to give)_

 

 

* * *

 

 

  
a nameless girl walks through the streets. she is sick. she is dying.

she is a killer.

she doesn't have to be. it's almost a cop out, but she does what she does under the guise of stealing blankets, food; clothing. the city lives with the fear of illness and blood that runs through the streets wherever she walks. they weep; she stares.

the draw of a knife is so easy.

there's a girl who dies because of her-who, in her last moments, asks with angry red eyes and a blood pouring out in a slow spill—why!?

only when she dies does she reply, "i wish i could tell you."

she eats her food. drops the plate with a clatter back to the table and says, still swallowing down her meal, in reply to what is now nothing more than the corpse of a girl who didn't deserve to die, "why do i do it? shouldn't i know after this many?"

she steps over her, pausing only to look back at the anger that sits frozen on the girl's face.

"maybe i kill to find out why."

 

 

* * *

 

 

they call her witch, as the stories spread all across the land. crimson eyes, skin bathed in blood—she will kill you, your family, your neighbors, your loved ones. she will bath in carnage and cast her spell when she is done.

_(bullshit)_

she thinks that before they will ever catch her for her crimes, she'll die first. her lungs are bitter, paper thin; so close to falling into dust every time she coughs. she has faith in the fact that her body may give out at any second, that she may die before they can line her up for execution.

but she is wrong.

it's a moment too early. they imprison her in iron cuffs. lash her back and leave her mangled in the street underneath the rain to die slowly, knowing she will not be able to escape. while laying there she wonders what will kill her first: the scourge that has torn her insides apart slowly, treacherously, or the blood loss; this final trauma her body has endured.

the rain pours harder. she laughs.

a girl next to her, more mangled than she; tortured beyond belief, left to die in blindness for a cause much more noble than her own, speaks up.

"who are you? what is your name?"

"i don't have a name," she replies.

then she keeps speaking. because the more she does, the more she feels realizations spreading themselves over her as her life comes back to her in pointless, taunting flashes. "i don't have anything. no coin, no house, no family or friends or lover. nothing at all. i give 'nothing' new depths."

"all i have is this life which is about to blink out along with everything else. i wound up with zero."

she laughs.

 

 

* * *

 

 

in the final moments, she feels rage.

it is an unholy sense of justice; a longing to have every wrong against her repaid in full by the shitty world that has taken everything from her. this world beat her black and blue, it sold her into a brothel, it left her to die on the riverbed. it gave her peace and stole that too—to make her sick, it forced her to swim in a man's blood and then swim in the blood of hundreds of others. it taught her to do the same as it: to take, to kill, to live a life with no purpose; no meaning.

she feels herself dying.

struggles then, trying to scream just to feel liquid in her mouth, the taste of her own blood as she chokes on the sounds and spits up bile instead.

"no," she thinks. "fuck this. i don't want to die—it's all of you who should die."

_no, no, no, no, no, no, die, die, fuck, fuck this, you should die, die, die, die, die—_

a flower blooms in her eye. caught in the center so that she is forced to see it, not that she would turn her head away from it regardless.

it is warm. warmer than anything she has held in her life. it sprouts in the final breath she manages to take, ethereal while fighting the heavy fall of rain in the cold stone all around her and four dead girls. she smiles at the sight of it, blood spilling from the corners of her mouth in a slow pour.

it's beautiful.

dying with it here—there are worse things than this.

 

 

 

_“she is dead,_  
_but there is beauty,_  
_a white rose”_  
— H.D., from Selected Poems; “Priest”

 

  
she lives a life with no purpose.

so she names herself as such: zero.

when she realizes what she’s become, she tries to kill herself. she screams in horror and rage and puts the knife to her throat before the sound is brutally cut off by her own hand. but the flower refuses to let her die—piece of shit. it brings her back, forcing five other girls to rise from its center with her—petty. they are named accordingly:

five. four. three. two.

one.

they are her sisters, born from a flower; born from blood. much like her they live in this world as all powerful and unwilling goddesses who don't know what they are capable of when they choose to carry on a life of righteousness and liberation. they are quick to determine the lives they want to live: to fix the world. to save it.

zero thinks, _what a shitty, cruel joke._

to be stupid enough to think any of them could ever do such a thing. to be that naive.

to act in defiance of their true, world ending nature.

and then she thinks:

_fine._

_i'll kill them. i'll kill all of them._

 

   
why?

 

_shut the hell up._


End file.
